Moving Day for Brain Man
Poem by Mark Prudowsky. Photo by Kees Terberg.





When Brain Man needed a shave
all he saw in the mirror was a gray rain—its pallor,
not its wetness.

He knew to call this place quits and find a new home.

He thrums as he packs himself entire:
seventeen used dime-store novellas; an urn
leaking the remains of three kept turtles;
a malamute named Sequoia who hated
gunshots and rain; and a gator named Earl with bad teeth.

All done, he thought to give his mind a good sweeping clean.
It got ahead of him though. Like as not,
it was already there—the new place. The rest of him
would have to catch up, find the joy brought
by another piece of him or a belonging
arriving one day at a time at the new home.


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